


Sentences

by Moonlark



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Multi, Random Drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:36:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone gives me a random sentence, and I try to somehow relate it back to figure skating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sentences 1-10

**Author's Note:**

> All the sentences were given to me by other people. I did not come up with any of them... especially not the stupid ones.

**1\. The sky is blue.** (Jason, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy AU)

This was the first thought Jason had upon waking up that brisk, cold Wednesday morning. The brown-haired nineteen-year-old rolled over onto his side and stared off into the distance, gazing blindly at a blank wall. Slowly, solemnly, he thought those simple, fateful words again.

_The sky is blue, the grass is green, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the people are laughing, and Earth will be destroyed on Friday._

He was tempted to just lie there, go back to sleep ( _what was the point of doing anything now? Earth was scheduled to end on Friday_ ), but a faint scratching in the back of his mind reminded him that while he might not be able to save the planet from the Vogons approaching (and why did he particularly want to save Earth anyway?), he could still save himself...

When he walked out the door that morning, Jason was certain of the following: the sky was, in fact, a murky shade of gray, the grass was a dried brown, the sun was covered by bulky clouds, the birds were silent, the people were all inside, the world was two days away from ending, and he had less than forty-eight hours to hitch a ride off this fucking planet.

 

 **2\. If there was ever a time to panic, it would be now.** (Alex, fantasy AU)

Alex slowly turns and blanches at the sight of the army before him. The Rat King's malevolent glare fixes him to the spot, and his limbs begin to shake. He swallows around a dry weight in his throat, raises his hands above his head, and summons a small, nervous smile. 

Then he whirls and bolts.

He can hear the snarls behind him, the hot breath on his heels and the fangs snapping at empty air. He's gotta run, gotta run, gotta run faster, gotta get away. He can't let them catch him. He's got the Spiritskeyne, and he can't let them take that. 

He hangs a sharp left and glances at the cloth-wrapped stone in his hand—the Spiritskeyne, that only the true king can actually touch. He's gotta get it back to camp—or else all's gonna be lost.

If the Rats get the Spiritskeyne back, then all he—and any other human—can look forward to is a slow, painful death. He can't fail now.

 

 **3\. I'm so turnt up right now.** (1st person—Josh, _Jason/Josh_ , side Gracie, side Max, side Ashley, side Alex, underage drinking/drugs)

There are bright lights all around me, flashing and swirling. I've got a drink in one hand and a bong in the other, and smoke is curling toward the ceiling. Next to me, Ashley is in a state of near-constant giggling as some random hottie whispers in her ear. Gracie and Max are making out in the corner, Alex is fooling around on the dance floor, and Jason appears to have left. It's a shame—this party's pretty good. The weed's fantastic, and I kind of wish I could've gotten him high. That would've been fun to watch. Also, if I got him high... but no. If I'm going to get with him, I want him to be completely fine with it.

But right now, I'm too turnt to care. 

 

 **4\. The ashes just keep falling.** (Jason, disaster, dark)

He stands in the a middle of the gutted shell of a rink, staring blindly at the destruction around him. Sunlight streams though the giant hole in the roof, illuminating the cracked and melting ice and the crumbling supports. Embers still smolder within the wreaked building, small fires sparking in and flaring out, and smoke twines through the open air like the ghost of a great god's wrath. Throughout the whole structure, nothing moves, and a few limp, slumped bodies litter the stands. He tries to look away, to not see them, because if he doesn't look, they could be anyone... but he's only putting off the horrible, inevitable moment when he will have to look into those still, glassy, blank eyes that will never see again.

There's blood on Jason's hands, and the ashes just keep falling.

 

 **5\. If a tree falls in the forest but no one hears it, does it make a sound?** ( _Jason/Josh_ , high school AU)

That was the question written on the board when Jason walked into his philosophy class. Inwardly, he groaned. He usually looked forward to philosophy, both for the intellectual challenge and for the fact that the boy who sat in from of him, Josh, was really cute. 

In fact, Jason looked forward to a lot of life—he found that things were more enjoyable if you met them head on and smiling. This question, however, was one of the few things he actively hated.

He slid into his seat and took out his notebook. In front of him, Josh turned around and muttered, "This is plain bullshit."

Jason smirked and replied, "Of course it makes a sound, if you're talking about physics."

"Exactly, there are sound waves."

"Just because there's no one to hear them doesn't mean they aren't there. It's like a murder in a dark alley. If no one notices that a person died, if even the murderer forgets about it, it still happened, and someone still died."

Josh looked at him, slightly confused, but just then their teacher, Mr. Plushenko, entered, and Josh snapped around. The philosophy teacher was strict, and neither boy wanted to risk his wrath. 

The class began, and Jason was left staring at the back of Josh's head, daydreaming about those blue eyes...

 

 **6\. Jealousy and pride lead to homicide.** (Jason, Jeremy, dark)

The words were splashed across the white wall in brilliant crimson paint, still fresh and dripping downward in gruesomely evocative rivulets. Jason couldn't move; his feet were fixed to the spot and his eyes were wide with horror as he stared at the grisly message. He felt his stomach roll, and just barely managed to avert a full-on gastrointestinal revolt. 

The words released him from their spell, and he immediately flew toward the door, only to find it locked. Heart in his throat, breath coming too fast and skin clammy, he desperately searched the room for a way out, but found none. Exhausted, but still driven by terror, he returned to the center of the chamber and cast one last glance around before turning to face the paint-splashed wall once more.

Suddenly, the door flew open behind him, lock snapping rather than opening, and he whirled to see Jeremy, bloodstained, wild-eyed, holding a gore-spattered knife and shaking all over. 

"I'm sorry," the other man whispered, and charged.

 

 **7\. Her mom put her on punishment.** (Polina/Gracie, Polina/Yulia, underage sex)

"I can't believe you would do that!" she screamed. "You're fifteen, Polina, and you've got your whole life ahead of you—your whole career! Yet you risk ruining your reputation now by sleeping with a fellow skater, and a girl at that! That Gracie should be ashamed of herself, and you should be, too! Now go think about what you've done!"

Polina hurried out of there, wincing as her ears picked up her mother's muttered comments as to what this world was coming to. The moment she got to her room, she locked the door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. 

At least Mom didn't know about Yulia.

 

(...bisexual Gracie be sleepin' around... she'll come back to Max, though... eventually...)

 

 **8\. He was pissed off, astonished, and impressed at the same time—but mostly impressed.** (Jason, side Gracie, hair)

Jason tilted the mirror from side to side, carefully examining the changes, trying to take it all in. It was very detailed, he had to admit, quite like the movie. The work was astounding... he just wished it hadn't been done with his hair.

He could still hear the snickers behind him. He didn't particularly mind, but he did mind the hairstyle. Its intricacies were quite interesting, but he very much preferred his own ponytail.

Sighing, he shook his head, began to unravel the buns, and made a mental note to himself: _don't fall asleep with Gracie nearby unless you want to wake up with Princess Leia hair._

 

 **9\. You're the expectation, not the exception.** ( _Jason/Josh_ , dystopia, military)

Those words ran through Josh's head as he marched around the parade ground, perfectly in step with his fellow trainees. His clothes were exactly the same as theirs, the dull grays and blacks that made up the uniforms. On the outside, he seemed the mirror of every other soul in that yard. In fact, the words he was thinking were exactly the same as the others.

However, he was thinking them differently.

 _Fit in, do as you're told, and you'll be fine. Be the expectation by not being the exception._ In his mind, the words had a disdainful, scorning tone, loaded with sarcasm.

Once, he had believed those words. He had listened to the government, and thought what they said to be true. Now, though, he had learned better, and knew that there was only lies behind the propositions for uniformity. Still, he seemed to blend in, because he knew he would have no chance of accomplishing his mission if he was obvious. If he was discovered, he would be unable to rescue Jason.

He couldn't keep his mind away from Jason. In that one boy, individuality had found a true champion—Jason, who always wore bright colors, standing out against the drab grays of the uniforms—Jason, who had refused to crop his hair to the mandated length or shorter, letting it grow and gathering it into a ponytail—Jason, who was always smiling and laughing, even when surrounded by the grimaced officers.

The last time Josh had seen him, he was being dragged away, out of his house, off to the great prisons that floated on the high seas. 

In truth, Josh had joined the guard forces not to serve the country, but to see if he could find a chance to set his boyfriend free. He missed Jason, missed the smiles, the kisses, the warm nights in too-cold houses, the gentle hands, the comforting body that was more fragile than it looked, the soft brown eyes that seemed to reach into his very heart, and set a hook, and twist. Even before they'd gotten together, the other boy's cheeriness had helped greatly with the rough, hard life that regular citizens were subjected to. When it seemed there was no joy in the world, that bright smile had reminded him that there was freedom and happiness out there somewhere...

But now, Jason was gone, possibly hurting, or tortured, or *gulp* _dead_ , and all that remained was the messages the government force-fed them: _Individuality is weakness; conformity is strength. When we become one, we are unstoppable._

But in the midst of their prized conformity, one mind swore to do anything to save the one he loved most... and if it was too late, then the government would find a most cunning revenge squatting angry on their doorstep—one they could not turn away, for they had already invited it in to the hearth.

Josh waited... and waited... and plotted... and planned... and, with his whole heart and mind and being, hoped that someday he would see Jason again.

 

 **10\. We spend our whole childhood wanting to grow up and our entire adult lives trying to turn back the clock.** (1st person—Jeremy, side Jason, side Josh, lament of an aging/depressed figure skater)

I sigh and glance down at my hands—firm, strong, slightly callused but whole. There are no undue wrinkles, no signs of withered age creeping in and taking a seat by the fire. These are the hands of someone not yet thirty, a young life recently begun—and yet I feel so old. My body's breaking down slowly, giving out on me—or at least that's what it feels like. 

Protests in my head—telling me I can't leave now, can't give up, not yet—echoing round and round, but other pounding drums in my skull argue, insist that there's no point anymore, nothing left on the ice for me. I'm worn out—am I? How long did it take? What is this weariness that seeps through my bones? It's not solely out there, out on the ice, but all over—pains in my conscious—whispers in my psyche—aches in my soul—a freeze-dried heart—hands that look whole but shake when no one's watching.

If only it were all on the ice! but it doesn't just feel like that, I'm not just tired—oh so bone-tired, exhausted, stale, fatigued, ready for a nice long nap, drained, wasted, overused and over-maintained—but not just tired on the ice. It's all over. Life itself has exhausted me—the bright reward of the future has lost all allure—the shining city on the hill has faded and collapsed into a castle of ruin—the light at the end of the tunnel has turned out to be the headlamp of a fast approaching train—is my mind going? If it wasn't, would I be thinking these thoughts? Whatever. Why do I care? I'm not really living anyway. I'm just going through the motions, and I'm not sure how much longer I can hang on. 

Out on the ice, two boys are fooling around, full of nineteen-year-old exuberance and cheer and energy—one, wide blue eyes sparkle—two, brown ponytail whipped in a false wind. So young! so innocent! so unaware of what pain will come, what struggles and troubles are in store for them. Have they no idea of the nightmares that will haunt them, the psychological traumas that will creep in through the cracks in years to come... so oblivious.  But they, too, will find the harsh horrors eventually, and then they will have to deal alone... I wish I could warn them.

I wish I could turn back the clock, take myself back to that oblivious youthful energetic fire. I wish I could be that innocent again. I wish I were out there with them. I wish I could join them, be like them, even for a day, just to forget my silently awful hell of a life that no one else can see... but wishes are just prayers sent to a god that ignores them. My time is gone, and I can do nothing but fade away from this life.

I am older than an eon, a new generation has come to supplant me, and I must now take my place in the shadows and weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, which ones do you like? Which ones would you like to see more of? What do you want next?
> 
> Also, feel free to leave me sentences. In fact, please do.


	2. 11-20

**11\. "The innocence in your eyes was dead and gone,"** (Jason, Josh, Max, boy band AU)

"You swore to stay, but now you've moved on..."

Jason stopped and looked up when Max and Josh entered the room. "Hi," he said, "what do you think?"

Max smirked. "I thought we'd agreed no more song-writing for you when we aren't around to keep it sane."

"Hey!" Jason protested indignantly. "'The Cat-Bird Conspiracy' turned out fine! I mean, we wouldn't be here without it."

Josh sighed and dropped down onto the couch, snatching the guitar away from Jason. "Yeah, maybe CBC turned out all right, but what about  'Maniacal Ramblings'?"

"That was meant to be a joke—"

"Or 'Ballad of a Moonlit Corpse'?"

Jason blushed. "But that one was meant to be creepy! It was written on request. I've got no idea why Adam wanted a song about a dead body, but..." 

Max shook his finger under Jason's nose. "No corpses."

"But we need someone to put a little humor in the music! And speak for yourself, anyway, Max. All you can write are sappy love songs."

Josh fought to keep his laughter down. "Okay, one, corpses aren't humor; they're horror. Two, sappy love songs are what the fangirls _want_."

Jason drew himself up, crossed his arms, and glared at them severely. "Sappy love songs are a dime a dozen," he said in a prim voice. "What the fans, and not just the fangirls, want is a song with originality, humor, love  _and_  fun, and without me you would have trouble providing the interesting mix of harmony and discord that the music of Curious Infamy is known and loved for."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then all three cracked up. That impression was one that never failed to make them laugh. 

"But from what I heard, I thought it was pretty good," Josh said once they've calmed down again. 

Jason preened.

 

 **12\. The toilet paper had run out.** ( _Jason/Josh_ , _Gracie/Max_ , sad, unrequited love, toilets, bodily functions, it's the Jason/Josh that's unrequited, Gracie/Max are fine, did I mention sad, VERY SAD)

Jason sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he glared at the empty toilet paper roll. He knew there had been some left when he'd last used it, and another roll in the cupboard under the sink, but since then, they'd disappeared. He couldn't think of any other explanation but that someone had broken in and stolen the toilet paper... which was very weird and disturbing in its own right. 

More importantly right now, though, was that come morning, he would need to shit and it was after midnight and there was no toilet paper.

Maybe he could find some paper towels... (nope, not there) or some napkins even... (they were gone too).

He was getting really freaked out now, so much so that he nearly forgot his original problem. It was not a pressing concern, merely a back-of-the-mind knowledge that he'd hate himself when the sun rose and he had nothing to wipe his ass with. But seriously, it was creepy to think that someone had snuck in here and stolen the _toilet paper_.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. Josh was just down the hall... surely he wouldn't mind. All the rooms were supposed to have an extra roll tucked away in the cupboard under the sink, and they only had one night left here...

He laughed as he realized how strange he would sound, asking for toilet paper. But still, Josh would understand... but what if he didn't? Jason swallowed nervously. He'd always agonized over decisions involving Josh, even when telling himself that there wasn't really a chance, it was only a crush, it would go away soon...

 _Stop overanalyzing things,_ he told himself, _and get a move on_.

Tucking his key in his pocket, he stepped out into the hallway. He paused outside Josh's room and raised a fist to knock... but a noise from inside the room made him pause. 

He stood stock still, listening... and then another noise met his ears.

Josh's voice floated through the door, indistinct, saying something, and then came a woman's laugh, followed by a loud, exaggerated moan that left nothing to the imagination.

Jason's throat constricted and he backed away as swiftly as his suddenly semi-paralyzed body would allow. He was shivering, shaking uncontrollably—the whole building had to be able to hear it. _Get away, get away, get away,_ came a pounding chorus inside his head, and his heart, splintering slowly into a thousand shards, agreed.

He whirled and began to walk away, and then ran, and then sprinted, streaking toward a safe haven where he could cry uninterrupted.

*******

The next morning, Gracie was the first one up. Max rose not long after. He always woke up after she got out of bed; she suspected he felt when the warmth of her body left. 

They both got dressed in a comfortable silence separated by sporadic and spontaneous kissing, and then Max left to sneak back to his room. Everyone knew they were together, but no one needed to know they were 'together' last night.

Once she'd made herself appropriately beautiful, she toed on her Uggs, shrugged on a dark fleece—North Face—and headed downstairs. Yesterday, she'd finally managed to find a Starbucks, and she felt she'd gone long enough without her vanilla bean frappuccino.

However, as she walked through the lobby, something on the floor made her pause. She knelt down and scooped up the watch—Jason's. Turning in a circle and scanning the surrounding area, she determined that the door off to her right was the most likely culprit. She peeked her head through and found a multitude of couches... one of which had a brown-haired nineteen year old curled up on it, fast asleep.

If the tear stains and red-rimmed eyes were anything to go by, he'd cried himself to sleep. Gracie sighed in sympathy and padded over to settle on the couch next to him. He didn't wake.

When eventually he did, she couldn't get a word from him, not even when Max showed up and tried to help. They learned all they needed to know, however, when Josh walked by.

The way Jason shrank back and hid his face spoke volumes enough.

 

 

 **13\. By the time I recovered from the nightmare, I realized it had been longer than a hundred years.** (1st person—Jason, _Jason/Josh_ , Sleeping Beauty AU, kind of)

I shook my head in disbelief. How— how could this have happened? I hadn't changed at all, still nineteen, brown-haired and smooth-skinned, but the small garden in the window box had sprawled over the edges of their terrace. The honeysuckle on the lattice outside had crept in slowly, blooming around the circular tower room, and dirt swept in on the lonely wind covered the floor, with dandelions nodding their smiling yellow heads peeking up all over the chamber. Sunlight shone through cracks in the walls, and ivy clung tenaciously to the intricate stonework.

I wandered over to the window and parted the hanging curtain of lichens. Peering down at the earth, I could see that the whole garden—the whole grounds—had been overrun by thorny rose bushes that tangled with the low-hanging branches of trees. The stones that had lined the carefully tended pathways were nowhere to be seen, and the town at the base of the hill seemed to have disappeared into a thick forest.

I- I didn't understand. None of this made sense. The last thing I remembered was pricking my finger on a skate blade. How in the name of the Goddess did that make a century just disappear?

Behind me, someone cleared their throat, and I whirled around to find a man standing there. He was young, about my age, with blue eyes and short brown hair—handsome enough. He was wearing some strange clothes of a too-bright, artificial color, and a sword was sheathed at his hip.

"Prince Jason?"he asked, calmly and clearly. My eyes narrowed. 

"How do you know my name?" I allowed a small amount of suspicion to sneak into my voice, and my hand flew to my side, where my own sword was—or should have been; that disturbed me more than I cared to reveal. "Who are you?"

He smiled slightly. "I am Sir Joshua, heir to House Farris, and a knight of Amelan. As to how I know your name, everyone knows the tale of the Sleeping Prince of Miersdale."

"Wha-what?!" Sleeping Prince of Miersdale? Yeah, I was the Prince of Miersdale, but I was the only one—we didn't have a sleeping prince. What nonsense was this? I began edging away from the crazy knight, certain that at any moment he was going to cease spouting drivel, draw his weapon, and attempt to disembowel me. 

Instead, he took four huge steps across the room and seized my wrist in a viselike grasp—his mistake. Maybe I'd been asleep for a century, but my reflexes were still on point. Like a flash of lightning, I slipped free and snatched the sword from its sheath—but it wasn't a sword at all.

"What i-is this?!" I stuttered out, staring at the strange contraption in my hands.

"It's a gun," Sir Joshua replied as he took it back. "They didn't have them when you last were awake." He pointed it at the far wall. "Simply aim and shoot, and your target's gone. Much easier than hand to hand combat." 

A brilliant light flashed, and a huge bang echoed through the chamber. I jumped about three leagues, squeezed my eyes shut, and slapped my hands over my ears. "What the hell?! How did you go from swords to that in a century?!"

Sir Joshua looked at me strangely. "A century? It's been much longer than that, Jason. You've been asleep for over a thousand years."

 

 **14\. "Uhh... yeah, I like pandas..."** (Jason, Josh, _Max/Gracie_ , Charlie, Meryl, Alex, aforementioned boy band AU) 

"So can you do it?"

"Hold on, I'll check." Jason set the phone down and wandered out into the main room. Josh was sprawled out in a recliner, every so often starting up and scribbling down possible lyrics for a song—new music was always a good idea. Max was lying on the floor, texting someone (probably Gracie—they seemed to be getting very close). Charlie, their bodyguard, was perched on the window ledge, posture relaxed as he waved to the people in the street far below. Meryl was hunched at the table, brow furrowed, pecking away at her laptop as she did whatever it was managers did—managing them, probably.

"Umm... just wondering, but would we have the materials to care for a panda for a few days?" 

And then everyone was staring at him. Max burst out laughing.

"What the... a panda? Where the hell are you going to get a panda?!" Josh yelled.

"Have you already acquired this panda? Does it have a return policy?" Charlie snickered.

Meryl sighed, and Jason could just feel a full-on Mother-Mode attack approaching. "What have you done this time?"

Without answering any of the questions (or Max's laughter), Jason turned and headed back to his room. He picked up his phone and said, "Sorry, Alex, no go. I can't do it. You'll have to find someone else to care for this panda."

 

 **15\. "Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100-foot clipper."** (Seriously?, okaaay..., _Jason/Josh_ , (as always), humor, spellcheck errors, 56 B.C. And All That)

Jason nearly dropped the book he was reading. "What?!" he sputtered out. "What did you say?"

Josh smiled and continued speaking. "The greatest writer of the Renaissance was William Shakespeare. Shakespeare was born in the year 1564, supposedly on his birthday. He wrote tragedies, comedies, and hysterectomies, all in Islamic pentameter."

That drew a stunned giggle from Jason, as he tried to make sense of what Josh was saying. 

"In one of Shakespeare's famous plays, Hamlet rations out of his situation by relieving himself in a long soliloquy. His mind is filled with the filth of incestuous sheets which he pours over every time he sees his mother—"

"Woah woah just wait a minute. The filth of incestuous sheets? What is this stuff?"

Josh looked at him askance. "You've never heard of _56 B.C. And All That_?"

Jason shook his head. "No... what is it?"

Josh's face had taken on the evil smirk that Jason had learned meant he should be very afraid. "An alternate version of history, based on mistakes in students' papers. Let's start from the beginning." He cleared his throat. "Ancient Egypt was inhabited by mummies, and they all wrote in hydraulics..."

Jason's jaw was sore from laughing by the time they finished. "Cyrus McCormick invented the McCormick Raper, which did the work of a hundred men..." he giggled, tears of mirth rolling down his face. 

Josh settles back, satisfied at the pile of helpless laughter he'd reduced his boyfriend to.

 

 **16\. The shop was always great, a dream come true, but it was never more relaxing than at closing time.** ( _Gracie/Max_ , _Jason/Josh_ , siblings—Gracie & Jason, others, tea shop AU, tea, teacups, teabags, tea leaves, teabagging... just kidding)

When the last customer leaves and the sign on the door has been flipped from 'Open' to 'Closed', Gracie leans against the counter and heaves a sigh of relief. Yeah, she loves the shop, but there are just some days where you can't wait for closing time to come.

As Jason finishes clearing the tables, he glances up, and calls over, "You just gonna stand there?" His voice is light-hearted, good-mannered, and a joking smile brightens his face. 

Gracie smiles back, grabs a broom, and begins to sweep. Her brother is the best. No, wait—the shop is the best.

After they've made the small tearoom presentable again, Gracie heads to the register to take stock of the finances while Jason puts one last pot of water on to boil. In time, though, the work is done, and they're able to collapse in two of the huge overstuffed couches and armchairs that circle the hearth and wait for the group to arrive. 

The first one to show up is Josh, who works in the patisserie two streets down. He sets down the box of macaroons he'd brought and kisses Jason, briefly but tenderly, before sitting down next to him. 

Gracie gets up to poke the fire briefly, and to take the water off; it's started to boil. She knows who's gonna be there and what they all like, so she just goes ahead with it.

While she's up, Mirai, Alex, and Maia arrive together, having walked from the Japanese restaurant where they bus tables. After them, Polina sneaks in on cat-quiet feet perfectly suited for her job at the local library. Ashley strolls in, still dressed in her security guard uniform (even though her shift at the bank ended an hour ago, she doesn't get a chance to go home until the 8:00 train that night), and then in comes Adam, t-shirt wrinkled and hat on backwards, not yet out of the persona he adopts when DJ-ing at the hip-hop radio station. A few minutes later, Jeremy staggers in, a walking zombie with dirt in his hair; being a homicide detective sometimes gets you dirty, sometimes stresses you out, and sometimes gives you nightmares. Hopefully today hasn't been one of the nightmare cases. 

Eventually, they're settled around the fire, each with their own drink in their hands. Pleasant conversation circulates, but the evening wrap-up hasn't really begun yet—there's still someone missing.

When the bell for the door chimes, they all look up. Gracie grins and leaps up as Max shrugs out of his coat, dripping wet from the rain that had started. They meet in the center of the room and share a quick kiss before settling down on a soft couch.

"How'd class go today?" Gracie asks.

"Orchestra, great. Band, not so much. The trumpets never listen." Max shakes his head and accepts the cup of tea she hands him, reminiscing about the antics of the three female flautists who kept trying to match one of the clarinetists with the tuba player, and other tales of the high school instrumental student teacher. The whole room laughs; those kids are just crazy. 

The talk then shifts to a more sober topic as Jeremy is coaxed into describing the case he's currently on. It's male, young, and was poisoned. All the evidence points to the ex-girlfriend. There are a few moments of silence, a spontaneous vigil, and Gracie sends up a quick prayer for the unnamed victim. 

Polina's contribution to the conversation is her usual hilarious stories about the strange requests she deals with at the library. Today's installment, about a guy trying to locate a CD (a CD? Really?) by a band that didn't exist has them all in stitches. Alex muses about the party of hot women he served at the restaurant today, while Maia and Mirai egg him on, adding juicy trinkets just when it seems he's about to stop. As usual, Adam doesn't talk much (he talks on the radio every day, and just needs a break), but Ashley makes up for it, vividly describing the ridiculous outfit of an old lady depositing a check, dressed in the ostrich-feathered hat and everything.

When the discussion enters a lull, Gracie tucks her feet up and leans her head on Max. Max smiles and shifts just enough to make it more comfortable for both of them. 

As she sits there, Gracie can't help the feeling of contented calm that  clings to her, that has since closing time, a cocoon of security and comfort that she knows will stay as long as the tea shop is hers.

Sure, it's not a great business strategy, giving away tea to nine friends (not counting her and her brother), but when she and Jason opened the tea shop, they knew it wasn't going to be all about money. And this, the fire, the tea, the comfy couches, the roof, the shop, the friends, her brother, and Max—it's enough.

It's certainly more than enough.

 

 **17\. The sky above him is a beautiful color, he notices, a marble tie-dye patchwork of cerulean and clementine and magenta and rose and sunflower and indigo, with specks of white floating on the dappled ceiling, painting a mural of the world in a glorious burst of vitality.** ( _Jason/Josh_ , sad, SAD, major character death, this is a long sentence, werecat!Jason, on his ninth life, fatal injuries)

It's the kind of sky you always remember, a grand fanfare, a parting gift and a welcome song from the heavens, for the only time you see it and take notice, the only time you realize what it represents, is when you are in the presence of death.

And no time is the sky more beautiful than when the death is your own. 

The concrete beneath him is a dull, solid weathered gray, stark in contrast to the exalted display above or the mottled, multitudinous greenery off to his side. If he could move his arms, if he could reach out, if he could stroke the translucently chartreuse blades... in his mind's eye, he imagines making that minuscule journey, stretching out to feel those iridescent glowing greens, those emeralds, these jades, leaves of grass that he could touch if he could but move...

He can't feel his fingertips.

A warm wind wanders by, sending soft, teasing breaths in an attempt to stir his chocolate hair, to add dimension, an illusion of movement and vitality, but his ponytail is trapped under his body, pinned to the ground by a limp, dead weight, and only a few independent strands worm their way free to dance in the gently blowing wind. The rest snakes across the concrete, weaving around and over the multifaceted diamond-like shards of glass that speckle the earth around him. 

The sharp pain in his chest has faded to a dull, dry, dreary ache, stumbling wearily around the edge of his consciousness. If he didn't know any better, it would be easy to forget that the silver, serrated blade of a hunting knife has made itself a new sheath within his ribcage and that the slow, sticky liquid staining the ground around him is his own blood. He knows better, he does, but that doesn't mean it's easy to believe.

He doesn't feel hurt, only... so... tired...

He becomes aware of a faraway screaming, out of tune and out of focus, as if heard through a cloud of static and soundproofing. His ears are ringing, and his head pounds steadily, beating in time with his struggling heart. If this is dying, it's not really that bad. He just wishes it would hurry up.

Suddenly, a face appears in his field of vision, blocking out the heavenly canvas. 

"Jason... Jase, stay with me..." Josh begs, eyes wide and panicked as he grabs Jason's hands, tries to stop the bleeding, to do something—anything—to keep Jason alive. But Jason knows, has known since he hit the ground and felt his spine snap, since the knife sliced through his skin and his lungs began to fill with blood, that it's too late.

"Don't leave me, Jason, stay awake," Josh whisper-orders in a shaky voice. "You're not going anywhere, you can't... say something, please, Jason, talk to me, don't just lie there, SAY SOMETHING!" 

And suddenly, he's got to. He can' t just lie here; he's scaring Josh. He's hurting Josh. He has to say something, to reassure Josh that he's not going to die... oh god. He's dying... he doesn't want to die! But he is, and he can't panic, because if he does, it'll hurt Josh.

He can't hurt Josh... but it's unavoidable now. 

"Im sorry," he murmurs, struggling to get enough air in his lungs to speak. A bubble of blood forms at the corner of his mouth and then pops, and the colors in the sky are dimming, less of a vibrant display and more of a tear-streaked shroud. He takes as deep a breath as possible now, and then coughs, tasting the salty, coppery liquid in his mouth, swallowing as best he can.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "don't cry..." and then, softly, so low that only Josh, but not the other people, the strangers gathered around, can hear, "Love you..."

"But you, you're not dying, Jason, you can't be, you—"

"Ninth life, Josh. Only get nine..."

Josh sakes his head wildly, violently, hands moving from Jason's chest to his face, leaving a bloody thumbprint on his cheek. "Jason..." His voice breaks halfway through, and the second syllable of the name is replaced by a silent, heartbroken moan.

"Love you," Jason says again, stumbling over the pain that's finally returning from wherever he banished it to. It's an ice-cold needle probing him, a red-hot blade slicing him open and reorganizing his insides. It's an agony, but it's an unimportant agony, one that he can't give in to.

"Love you too," Josh responds, voice trembling, tears falling freely and creating a damp spot on the front of Jason's shirt. Jason doesn't mind. He doesn't really have reason to mind.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails with all the urgency of an unfed baby, and a panicked populace clusters around a body in the street and stares up at the window it had fallen from. But that somewhere isn't here, for the only things here are him and Josh and the heavenly mosaic that is slowly fading to a uniform dull black. 

His eyes slide shut for the last time, and his face grows cold in the sunshine. 

 

 **18\. "The high induced by smoking the blossoms of the Jaffrian pear cactus is similar to that of the Earthly cannabis plant, although about fifteen times more intense."** (Meryl, Charlie, Adam, a cadre of young idiots, Star Trek AU, kind of, I have no idea what a Jaffrian pear cactus is, I looked it up, if anyone does know what a Jaffrian pear cactus is please contact me)

"So they didn't smoke something fatal," Meryl sighed, nearly sagging with relief as she stared at the group sprawled out on the floor in the middle of the room, giggling like a convention of maniacs. "Just some alien drug that they could've possibly confused with something fatal."

"Yep," Charlie replied. To anyone else, he was Dr. White, the chief medical officer, but Meryl had worked alongside him long enough to know that he was nowhere near as intimidating as the title lead some to believe. "At least they knew what it was, though. None of them overdosed."

"Was that just luck? And how did they find out about this stuff, anyway?" Meryl shook her head. If she hadn't known about this plant, then where had they learned about it?

One of the ensigns, Adam, displayed a sudden interest in his shoes. This did not escape Meryl's notice; as captain of the USS Colorado, she knew how to recognize small things like that.

Unsurprisingly, Charlie noticed it, too. "Rippon? Do you have something you would like to share with us?"

"No, no, I uh just, I'll just go now..." And he went, sprinting out of the room at top speed, through the doors before an order to stay could be issued.

Meryl glanced at Charlie and raised an eyebrow. "One mystery solved," he replied, and then, "I have to get back to the infirmary. Lieutenant Abbot should be stopping by to get those sapphire fragments removed from his side."

"Dismissed. You ever find out how they got there?"

"Still says he doesn't remember!" This response was shot over Charlie's shoulder as he jogged out. 

 _One mystery solved, another still open—for now, at least,_ Meryl thought, and smiled. Then her smile slipped as her eyes met Commander Plushenko's. The Russian sent a knowing wink her way, and Meryl involuntarily blushed. She knew exactly what he was alluding to.

 _He's dead wrong,_ she thought, embarrassed and annoyed. _He may be convinced, but there's nothing going on between me and Charlie. It's a strictly working relationship._

With that thought, she left the room and headed back to the bridge.

 

 **19\. "Rabbit's name is Anzu."** (Javier, Yuzuru, bunnies, cuteness)

What, Javier thought as he stared at the rabbit. It wriggled in Yuzu's arms, soft and cuddly, so small (too small to be fully grown), black nose sniffing the air in such an adorable fashion. With Yuzu there, it was an overload of cuteness, and that was just not fair. He couldn't deal with this so early in the morning. And anyway, how had Yuzu gotten his hands on a rabbit?

He asked Yuzu that, and the other boy just shrugged and said, "Find her. She in box at roadside, say 'Free' on. I find her, name her Anzu. Can we keep?"

Javier's mind was full of logical reasons why they shouldn't, why he had to refuse, but then Yuzu pulled out that puppy face that just looked so sad and worked every time, and that was combined with the way the bunny shivered pathetically—and Javier's resistance just melted away.

"Okay," he said, "we can keep him." 

 

 **20\. The day began the way the world ended: not with a bang, but with a whimper.** (Jason, dragons, dragon riders)

Kasiya shifted slightly and wrapped her sinuous body more tightly around her boy. He still was so small, smaller than all the other human boys in his year... but of course those other boys were now gone. As far as she knew, they were the only pair left in existence. 

Her boy whimpered again, and she leaned down to nuzzle his hair gently. The movement caused the watery morning sunlight to glint off her polished scales, sending out a signal that blatantly read, _Here I am! Dragon! Come get me!_ However, no one saw, and no one cared. Deep in the Kråkestein Fjell, where the deadwights, feer, and elf-lys made their home, where trolls hid deep underground and varulver skulked behind every shadow, where none but the hardy hjort dared to wander, there were no humans to observe the tortured tears of the boy or the agonized memories the dragon was trying not to see.

Of course there were other creatures that watched them, creatures who might have made a meal of the small boy in other circumstances, but they did not dare show themselves with a dragon present, even a slim half-grown dragonet like Kasiya. 

Kasiya shifted again and glanced around nervously before turning back to her boy. The wracking sobs had stopped, but he still shook as images of destruction played a spinning carousel through his mind. Through the link, she could tell which memory he was currently being haunted by: Marti sprawled on the ground, a spear in his stomach with Angreniy lying next to him. The dragon was missing a head.

Kasiya shuddered and tried to clear her head of the image with a quick shake. The movement jolted her boy, though, and he raised his own head to stare back at her with eyes that had long since run out of tears—young eyes that should have never held such fear and despair—eyes that were tormented by visions that could not fade—eyes that had seen the world. And Kasiya knew that her eyes were much the same. 

 _It's gonna be okay,_ she whispered, trying to reassure him. _They can't get to us. No one knows where we are._

Jason only shrugged. _It's not okay,_ he said eventually. _But we'll survive._ _That's what we do._

And that was about all they could say on the subject. 

 

Elf-lys—elf-candles, spirits of a kind, akin to fairies

Feer—fairies

Hjort—deer

Kråkestein Fjell—Crow Stone Mountains

Varulver—werewolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number 16 is dedicated to [nothingelsematters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingelsematters/pseuds/nothingelsematters) for your support, loyalty, utter a-maize-ingness, and sensible, insightful, enlightening ideas. Thanks for everything you've done! Here, have a tea shop—hope you like it. :D
> 
> Sorry if I offended any Trekkies with number 18. I hope I got things right, or at least passable, but if I messed up somewhere, I apologize... keep in mind that Meryl doesn't exactly run the ship conventionally.  
>    
> Definitely going to be more boy band and dragons. Maybe a backstory for the werecat one, and an alternate (read: happy) ending. What do you think? 
> 
> As always, accepting questions in the comments.


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